


Five feet through the door

by nerdy-flower (baconnegg)



Series: Vegamarch Chronicles [2]
Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Adults trying their best even when they're really nervous, Damien's a widower, Does it count as OCs if they presumably exist but don't appear, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, M/M, Mary isn't in this one and tbh I'm kinda sad, Meeting the Parents, Original Character(s), Past Character Death, References to anxiety, Thanksgiving, good communication, i think so, slight angst with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 09:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12362805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baconnegg/pseuds/nerdy-flower
Summary: Local English Teacher Spending Thanksgiving with Cute Boyfriend's Parents for First Time; When Questioned, Claims He's "Not nervous whatsover, definitely not, it's just one weekend, why would I be nervous?"(A sequel to Always be seventeen, but it's not essential to have read that one first, it just adds some context)





	Five feet through the door

Six months in, the routine was set. Once Ernest was shuttled off to the other side of town in his Pops’ van, Duchess would take Hugo on a walk before being carefully shut (and always locked) in the basement, and he would change or thoroughly de-hair himself before heading over to the Bloodmarch manor for dinner. 

Some of the meals took getting used to, but Hugo wasn’t averse to reducing his meat intake. Even if they ate plain quinoa for every meal, it was better and cheaper than eating out or taking his meals-for-one to the Coffee Spoon and getting crumbs all over one of Mat’s back booths. Lending a hand in exchange for stolen moments in the kitchen, talking endlessly through dinner, and taking dessert in the auxiliary sitting room all made for a more comfortable evening, even if he did miss the bottomless iced coffees. 

“Are we going to the grands for Thanksgiving again?” Lucien pipes up one night, picking at the remnants of his eggplant parmesan. He barely batted an eye at Hugo anymore, often quiet but apparently content with his dad’s dating life. Hugo never thought he’d envy the maturity of someone who tried to Cask of Amontillado his only child, but here he was. 

“Indeed we are! I’ve already purchased the train tickets. Maybe this year your grandmother won’t insist on reimbursing me,” Damien says lightly, turning to Hugo. “What are your plans for the holiday, dear?” 

Hugo had to reply, around a rapidly chewed mouthful of seconds, that he had none. It was Nick’s turn to have Ernest for Thanksgiving, following their blessedly brief annual holiday custody argument. His mother was on a Caribbean cruise as a belated birthday gift from her best friends. And his brother could never get away from work at this time of year. He wasn’t overly troubled by it. Thanksgiving meant little to him in terms of concept or nostalgia. 

“True enough” Damien hums in reply, resting his chin on his hand. “But there are so few long weekends in a year. I do hate the idea of you spending it all alone.” He smiles, concern immediately replaced by elation. “Why don’t you come with us? My parents have been asking after you, it would be a splendid opportunity to present you in the flesh.” 

“Oh, uh, well,” Hugo conspicuously pushes his glasses up. “I’d be honoured, but that’s your family time. I wouldn’t want to intrude on that.” 

“It wouldn’t be an intrusion at all,” Damien insists, sunny as ever. “What do you think, son? Would you mind if Hugo came with us?” 

Lucien shrugs, the faintest slant of a smile on his lips. “Doesn’t matter to me. He’s bunking in your room, not mine.” 

The week blinks by, and suddenly they’re packed onto the latest Wednesday night train, surrounded by snoring passengers and watching darkened stretches of countryside and twinkling housing developments pass them by. Damien chatters quietly in Hugo’s ear about the social nuances of Victorian train travel, one foot braced on the opposite seat where Lucien is dozing, half curled-up and shielded from the world by an oversized black sweater and noise-cancelling headphones. 

Hugo takes a lull that follows the arrival of the snack trolley as an opportunity to brush up on all there is to know about Damien’s parents. In their time together, they’d mostly discussed books, history, wrestling, and each other’s sons, to name a few preferred topics. At the risk of seeming uninvolved, he’d always preferred to wait until someone brought up their home life first, never wanting to reopen an old wound out of simple curiosity. 

“And besides, I want to introduce myself to them properly. First impressions, and all that.” 

“Oh, you’re so polite,” Damien croons, linking their fingers together. Hugo almost thinks of also asking if his parents would like the box of hostess chocolates he’d purchased, but with the receipt long gone, he’s probably better off not knowing. “My mother’s name is Saoirse Lewis- She kept her own name before it was a common thing to do, though it was really more for her career than a statement, and my father is Marten Bloodmarch.” 

Hugo pauses in unscrewing his water bottle top. “Oh. I thought- never mind.” 

“Thought what?- Oh, yes, of course. Because Lucien’s name is-“ Damien flaps his hand and ceases interrupting himself. “Guillaume took my name when we married, all because he liked the sound of it better than his own- He was a bit frivolous that way. It was actually Bloemendaal originally, but when my father’s side temporarily relocated to England in the eighteenth century there was something of a clerical error and- Actually I’ll let my father explain it, it’s a much funnier story when he tells it.” 

Hugo’s lips curl on a smile. It’s rare to see Damien so energized past ten on a weeknight, dealing with incompetence and poorly maintained technology had a way of wearing on him the same way corralling group project conflicts and fidget spinner wars did Hugo. “So are they retired, or still working?” 

“My father is, though he’s far from idle. He used to be a conservator and exhibition coordinator for the local museum-“ 

Hugo eyes light up before he takes a drink. “Oh, that’s really interesting!” 

“Yes, very much so! And my mother is presently the Dean of Mathematics at Woodhaven University.” 

Hugo chokes, forcing the water down his burning esophagus to avoid an embarrassing spit-take and wiping his mouth hurriedly. “Wow, that’s- really something. You must be very proud.” 

“Absolutely, my mother’s unstoppable when she pursues something. I like to think I get my drive from her side.” Damien beams, patting Hugo’s back as he tries to discreetly cough. “I can hardly wait! I’ll get to show you all the former haunts of my misguided youth, and my father can get us into the museum for free...” 

Hugo forces a grin, now only half-listening as the train rattles along. They repeatedly check the rail map tucked between their seats until it’s time to gently rouse Lucien and hurry down the narrow metal stairs, stiff knees popping and cracking. The station is packed with tired-looking college students and other travelers pushing past them to board. Damien presses close, his face pinched with anxiety from the crowd. They lean against a support post, as good a lookout point as any on the yellow-lit concrete platform. It isn’t long until a petite, greying woman in a large blue overcoat elbows her way to them and latches herself to Damien’s middle. 

“There you are! I was afraid you’d fallen asleep and missed your stop! Oh, it’s so good to see you, sweetheart! How are you?” 

“Just fine, Mother dearest.” The woman briefly disappears in Damien’s embrace as he stoops to kiss her cheek. “Sorry to keep you up so late, we could have taken a taxi.” 

“Tch, don’t be silly. As if I’d have you waste your money- Hello Lucien darling, oh, I like the silver! Makes you look very grown up, very handsome.” Saoirse runs her fingers through Lucien’s curtain of hair, the young man displaying a dismayed but amused smile. 

“Hi Grams,” Lucien catches himself on a yawn, hugging her back with one arm. 

“Yes, yes, let’s get home. And you-“ The woman at last rounds on him, familiarly light eyes peering up from behind dark red cat-eye glasses and a slim hand pressed politely to his arm. “Must be Hugo! Good heavens, you’re tall! We might have to fold you into the backseat. Come on, then! I had to park near the back.” 

Hugo barely manages a greeting before the three men are hustled away from the station and into a sporty but compact electric car. The three family members chat the entire drive home, the radio playing soft rock on low while Hugo answers a few introductory questions and watches the scenery go by. He doesn’t feel slighted. He doesn’t see his own family often and is always more interested in catching up with them when he does. 

“Almost home!” The older woman crows as she takes a corner a bit sharply, rolling down a winding street with older homes resting like bricked sphinxes behind wide, leafless front lawns. They pull through a narrow gap in a high, wrought-iron fence. The house at the end of the smoothly paved driveway is ringed by tall, mostly evergreen trees so that it gets more light from the moon than the streetlights. A large veranda loops around one side of the house, and a darkened conservatory sticks out on the other. The roof draws up into sharply peaked gables at several points, with an honest-to-God turret nestled in centre.

Hugo muses that if anyone back at the cul-de-sac saw this, Damien’s architectural preferences would never be questioned again. 

The interior and furnishings match the outside; sweeping and elegant, with an element of comfort baked into every room. The living room is lit mostly by a large fireplace, because of course it is, and contains an aged armchair extended to a near-horizontal position, with a tall, pale, sweater-wearing man sleeping soundlessly atop it. 

“He always looks dead when he sleeps,” Lucien comments, a touch of concern in his voice as Damien tries to shake him awake. “And he does those weird Dracula hands.” 

“I know! I think he’s got that apnea thing, I keep trying to take him to the doctor, but he won’t listen.” 

“Try dragging him in the next time he falls off the roof.” Damien grins as his jostling finally succeeds. “ _Opstaan_ , Papa.” 

“Mm? What’s that? Who-” The man shoves his half-moon glasses clumsily back into place and sits up, expression quickly changing from bewildered to surprised. “Oh, Damien. Damien’s home!” 

“Yes, I am. I’ve missed you so,” Damien pulls the man into a tight hug, getting his hand brushed away when he offers to help him up. Hugo stands politely back as Marten greets his son and grandson in turn. Even in the firelight, he’s treated to a clear view of what Damien might look like on the cusp of seventy. Marten’s hair is greyer, cropped into a more typical short style, but the bangs still swoop down from his widow’s peak to hang in his face. The nose, the set of his shoulders, even the thin-lipped smile. The professor’s genes evidently stood no chance, except in the fashion department.

“And this must be-“ Marten points at him, eyes squinting after a lengthy pause. “-Damien’s boyfriend.” 

“Papa, you know Hugo’s name.” Damien scoffs, not sounding particularly annoyed. Hugo shakes his hand, offering his sincerest thanks for letting him stay and getting a few nods in response before the man stumbles off to bed. Saoirse leads them up the grand, creaking staircase, showing Lucien to a guest room at the top of the stairs and the two men to Damien’s childhood bedroom, appropriately Gothic and endearingly left untouched, fraying movie posters and all. She bids them to “Sleep well, dears, I’ll see you in the morning. There’s extra toiletries and sheets in the closet if you need anything.” 

Once changed into his pajamas (one of many stolen t-shirts from Hugo and a pair of flannels, period sleepwear took up too much space in his suitcase), Damien flops onto the queen-sized bed, near boneless with relief, and pulls Hugo down with him. “It is so wonderfully strange to have you here. It’s silly, but I still feel as though I’ve spent the whole of my life here until just recently. I want to show you everything.” 

“I look forward to seeing everything,” Hugo replies, smiling as they trade a few unhurried kisses. Damien drops off almost immediately, his body warmth seeping beneath the cool purple duvet, and Hugo eventually ignores the knot in his stomach long enough to cuddle close and do the same. 

He awakens the next morning to soft kisses along his jaw, and long fingers skimming along the waistband of his boxers, tracing even lower when Hugo turns to slide their lips together. “Mm, someone’s grabby this morning.” 

Damien giggles, his voice a touch rough. “Well, I woke up to _someone_ prodding at me, and I thought since we haven’t gotten much alone time this week, we could make better use of this bed than having a lie-in. What do you think?” 

Hugo is very receptive to that idea, and crawls on top of Damien just in time for a few loud raps sound at the door. “Morning, kids! Breakfast will be ready in fifteen, hope you like omelets!” 

“Or we could forget that idea entirely,” Damien whispers in a truly pathetic tone before calling out. “We’ll be down in a moment, Mother!” 

Breakfast goes relatively well, Lucien talking about school and Damien talking about work, Saoirse discussing both while Marten eats in comparative silence. Hugo makes pleasant small talk about his career, his son, and how he came to Maple Bay. He stumbles on the question of his alma mater (Cavatica College, an aging campus located in an Ohio town just big enough to boast exactly one grocery store, one bookstore, and three terrible bars), his attention drawn to the invisible price tags on the actually-silver silverware, the mahogany dining room table, and the well-landscaped backyard that the dining room windows look out on. 

It shouldn’t be surprising to him. Damien lived a very comfortable life for a single parent. Extensive renovations and Victorian clothing come with price tags, of course. But Hugo had attributed that to Damien’s seniority at his job and the life insurance Guillaume had fortunately arranged prior to his illness. It seemed petty, even materialistic to be dwelling on income brackets when he should be trying to bond with the people who brought Damien into the world but- well, overlooking things wasn’t his strong suit. 

“…So I was hysterical, you know, I was so young and it’s not like I had previous experience to go on. Your father comes home and I tell him you swallowed a quarter, and you know what he said?” Saoirse jabs her fork at Damien, who’s already snickering, and proceeds to expertly mimic Marten’s accent, over-emphasized vowels and all. “’Well, we’ll just take it out of this week’s allowance, then!’” 

Damien and Lucien crack up. Hugo puts his thoughts away and laughs too. They already know the story, they’re telling it again partly for his benefit. He has to appreciate them. He has to avoid seeming rude or boring. God, what was the medication Mat took for his anxiety again? And was it possible to get a prescription from a walk-in clinic? 

Damien takes Hugo for a lengthy walk around town while his parents spend time with their favourite and only grandchild. They go past the school, closed-up for the weekend but as intimidating in appearance as Damien described it. Downtown, where Damien’s once beloved zine and comic book store has been replaced by a tanning salon. To the waterfront park, where he and Mary would hang out after school in nicer weather, fighting very legitimate turf wars with Canada geese and middle schoolers over who got to sit on the flat rocks at the very edge of the water. He and Hugo take a bench instead, looking out over the river that’s slowed to an almost mirror surface, warping the reflections of restaurant patios across the way and the grey-blue sky. Hugo manages to skip one rock out of five, earning brief but enthusiastic applause from his partner. 

“It’s so nice this year, it’s usually frigid by now. We get less snow than further north, but the cold can be so bitter.” Damien settles snugly against Hugo’s side nonetheless. His cloak has been exchanged for a black double-breasted jacket and matching woolen gloves, he’d still taken care with his makeup that morning but left his hair tied up, giving his appearance the slightly altered air of a young Oxbridge man returning to his country estate after the Michaelmas term. 

Hugo slips an arm around Damien’s shoulders, his steel grey windbreaker open and flapping slightly in the breeze. “It seems like a nice place, though. Did you like growing up here?” 

“Hmm, my opinion came in phases, as with most young people.” Damien chuckles, his lovely eyes tracking a twisted hunk of driftwood making its way downriver. “Initially, I thought it perfect and wonderful and more magical than any place in the world, because I couldn’t conceive of other places really existing. Then I thought it too small, too dull, and too backwards to be worth surviving in. More recently, I’m rather fond of it, though I’d still never want to move back. Maple Bay serves my needs much better.” 

Hugo concurs, kissing Damien’s temple and resting a moment there. His stomach rumbles quietly, informing him that they’d been out for some time. “Anywhere else you wanted to show me?” 

Damien perks up, a near-lustful hunger in his eyes. “Ooh, there’s a little fish and chips establishment that’s open on all the holidays. Their French fries are to die for, let’s grab some for everyone!” 

Damien’s mother and son are elbow-deep in baking when they return. Hugo does his best to assist, rolling dough for dinner rolls and at least two pie crusts while Saoirse works on the filling. She asks him how he likes teaching and what his favourite subjects are. Hugo answers in ways that avoid giving the impression that he curses at his sixth graders and somewhat-openly resents the department head who never lets him teach the AP classes even though he’s had the perfect curriculum drafted since dinosaurs roamed the Earth. 

Saoirse looks at him whenever he finishes, as if she’s expecting more. Hugo can’t blame her, teaching university must be much more exciting, and less restricted by perpetually disappointing budget cuts. Shaping the great minds of tomorrow, instead of babysitting the future of yesterday’s offspring. 

Damien takes him to the library on the top floor and he has to admit it, his knees go weak. His parent’s collection is as avid as his own, doubly so from a merged library containing enough rare editions to merit one shelf being behind glass. Hugo would be more than happy to spend all day in the storybook-perfection round room, seated on the green leather settee with nitrile gloves on, carefully pouring over an early printing of ‘The Great Gatsby.’ 

“You are so adorable when you’re excited, my love.” Damien nuzzles against his neck, normally more than enough to distract him, now he can barely bring himself to turn and share a smooch. 

“Ah, Damien, there you are.” It takes a concerted effort not to blush like a teenager at the sound of Damien’s father’s voice. “Can you help me with my website again? I tried to change one little thing and now it’s all a mess.” 

“Can’t you ask Mother?” Damien sounds slightly petulant, almost childish. “I’m a little busy at the moment.” 

“No, she always makes fun. It’ll just take a minute.” Damien gets off the couch with a sigh and takes the tablet his father thrusts at him, immediately becoming distressed at the sight. 

“What have you done to the code? You’ve undone all the- ugh, just a second. I think I can fix this. If you need to update it, just call me, alright? Clearly you can’t be trusted with it.” 

“I just wanted to change the colour of the letters a bit.” Marten pouts, folding his arms. The matching frowns on the pair make them resemble the statuette bookends strewn throughout the library’s shelves. 

“What was wrong with the font? It was black! The most readable colour!” 

“I wanted it a little less black.” 

“Oh, good Lord.” Damien massages his temple and returns to typing. “On a somewhat related note, how’s your workshop right now? I wanted to show Hugo some of your awards.” 

“Tch, there’s no need for that.” Marten glances over at Hugo. “Though if you don’t mind dead things, I’m doing final touches on a moose. Could use some help with the stitches.” 

“A moose!” Damien looks at once slighted and ecstatic. “You didn’t tell me you had a moose! I want to help!” 

“And you can. He’s just a juvenile, but a big one. Got into antifreeze or something, I don’t know. One of the Spelman boys found him in their yard. The backdrop is done already.” 

“We’ll have to come see that. Here,” Damien hands the tablet back and returns to his seat beside Hugo with a huff. “You know, if you were one of my clients, I’d charge you extra for making me code on one of those things. That touch keyboard is an atrocity.” 

“Ah huh, well, you’re a good help even when you’re being a pain.” Marten ruffles his son’s hair, and Damien looks so perfectly, immaturely exasperated that Hugo has to press his lips together to keep from laughing. “ _Dank je, snoes._ ” 

“ _Geen dank!_ ” Damien calls back, sighing a bit. “You know, sometimes I regret making that website for him. Maybe this Christmas I’ll buy him technical support from someone who isn’t me.” 

“I didn’t know you could make websites.” Hugo’s fingers return to caressing the fine, faintly yellowed pages. He would sell his plasma to have a copy like this, but it might take a kidney to buy an Ernest and Duchess-proof case. 

“I did it more in college. It was a rarer skill back in those days,” Damien clicks his tongue. “I just said ‘back in those days,’ middle age advances on me once again.” 

“You and I both, I slipped in the shower yesterday and pulled my back.” 

“Ah, but the rest of you is aging so well.” Damien draws his fingers through Hugo’s tied back hair, and he fights a shiver. God, he hasn’t been this easy for anyone since his first year in the college dorms. “We’ll pay the workshop a visit after supper. The chemical smells can ruin one’s appetite if you aren’t used to them.” 

“I have a teenage son and a dog, my sense of smell has gone into self-preserving hibernation, but I appreciate the thought.” 

Damien laughs, loud and merry. “Silly me, how could I forget.” He inclines his head towards Hugo, speaking in a low tone as his mother and Lucien are heard on the stairs. “And provided we’re not kept up too late, I would quite like to continue what we started this morning.” 

It’s definitely much too hard- difficult to concentrate on F. Scott Fitzgerald after that. 

Hugo helps with dinner and clearing up, ignoring searching glances from Saoirse and Marten’s preference for looking at things on Lucien’s phone over conversation. They decide to make hot chocolate for a treat afterwards, only for Saoirse to knock her mug clear across the counter with a loud curse. 

“Oh- damn it all!” Saoirse picks up the mug, cracked into multiple pieces. Lucien rushes in with an armful of paper towels. “Hugo, dear, could you rescue my papers?” 

Hugo grabs the stack of red-ink-covered policy reviews, narrowly missing the tidal wave of cocoa and marshmallows. “Do you want them anywhere?” 

“Just put them in my office, down the hall there on your left.” She smiles kindly at him, blotting a splatter on her shirt. “I’m supposed to finish them by Monday, but the provost can take a flying leap if she thinks I’m spending this weekend working.” 

Hugo chuckles, thinking of his own pile of abandoned grading at home. After opening two closets, he locates the office. Small compared to most rooms in the house, piled high with papers and books, the only free space on the oak desk being taken up by the computer monitor and keyboard. To prevent later confusion, he lays the papers on the wheelie chair for lack of a more prominent space and stands up, finally taking notice of the wall behind the door. 

It’s a beautiful set-up, photos in ornate but mismatched frames arranged from floor-to-ceiling, so inconsistent with the rest of the house and so sweetly parental. The fastidiousness comes through in the arrangement, the outer circle of frames being older, outright antique in some places. Likely grandparents and other relatives. Further in are Saoirse and Marten alone, her red hair shining in the sun of some tourist-y locale, the two on their wedding day. Then what must be infant Damien, in his crib, a little older reading a book on his father’s lap, much older next to a youthful and vibrant Mary at a school function, in the woods, at their graduations. 

Damien hung only recent family photos in his home, keeping others tucked away for personal viewing. Completely understandable, being out and proud didn’t mean you wanted to open a discussion on your transition every time a houseguest went upstairs to use the washroom. He’d never seen the albums, as Lucien had implemented a very strict “No, you are not showing your boyfriend my baby pictures”-“I wasn’t going to”-“I don’t care, just don’t” policy at the beginning of their relationship. But no reference was needed, the photo in the centre of the wall is unmistakably of Damien and Guillaume. 

It might have been in the backyard, but the three darkly-clothed humans overwhelm the frame. Lucien at the centre, his chubby toddler legs splayed over his parents’ laps as he happily sucks one thumb. Damien looking younger than he must have really been, much thinner, with shoulder length hair, round glasses, and a shyer smile. Guillaume sits half-pulled into his lap, at least a head shorter than his spouse by the looks of it and soft in the middle. Round, rosy cheeks stretched by a wide grin, a mop of poorly-combed dark curls, and arms fiercely tight around Lucien and Damien. It’s a beautiful photo, love emanating for and from the young family centered in the picture. Memorialized forever, a moment spared from pain, grief, and time. 

Hugo doesn’t stay a moment longer, because standing in someone’s office for no reason is a weird thing to do. He accepts the mug handed to him and they all sit in front of some trivia game show. Marten throws change at his son and grandson for every answer they guess right. All the while, the most selfish gears of Hugo’s brain turn and grind in his head, blocking him from paying attention to anything aside from numbly feigning absorption in the show. 

_Why didn’t you realize they miss him too? He must have been like a son to them._

_He went to the same high school as Damien, his family probably has money too. Private school’s not cheap._

_What was his job, again? Forensic testing- something. Hell of a lot more interesting than teaching high school kids how to place commas. Better money too, probably. How do you think they bought that big old house?_

_He was so good to Damien and Lucien. He had history with all of them that you’ll never have._

_What makes you think you can compete with that? Who are you kidding being here, Hugo?_

The program ends and he’s led by Damien’s hand to Marten’s workshop, a well-ventilated, utilitarian space filled with wall-mounted tools, foam molds, and mounted specimens. The moose stands in the central workspace. A beautiful creature, mounted as if about to break into a full tilt run, black glass eyes peering out. The fake forest floor beneath it was an amazing touch, nearly real. The skin hangs disconcertingly loose in places, but the illusion is otherwise quite convincing. 

“Are you going to use this one for competitions, Papa?” Damien asks, admiring the animal with a touch of sadness in his eyes. The poor thing had barely begun to grow antlers. 

Marten was already rolling up his sleeves, his ownership over the space visible in every element of the room. “Well, maybe. Provided no one goofs on the stitches.” 

Yeah, okay. Abrupt drop in self-esteem aside, Hugo still knew a burn when he heard one. 

He quickly excuses himself to the toilet and spends an extended period of time updating his apps and scrolling through the weather. He knows it’s incredibly self-centered, every extra moment he spends in here licking self-inflicted emotional wounds and making Damien worry about him. He knows that and he keeps doing it. _Idiot_. 

He decides to check in on Ernest. Bad boyfriend, decent father, one out of two wasn’t bad. 

**HV: Hey kiddo, Happy Thanksgiving! How are things?**

He’s honestly surprised when he gets an answer right away. 

**EHV: P good, hangin with Duchess in my room**

A picture follows afterwards of the mastiff’s goofy face upside down in some blankets. She was such a good dog, even with her destructive tendencies. Nick normally insisted she stay with Hugo when Ernest went, he didn’t want dog hair and slobber on everything, but Ernest had been the one to persuade him to take her this weekend rather than leave her at the (expensive as shit) doggie daycare. 

**HV: Haha, aw. You guys gone to bed already? It’s kind of early.**

 **EHV: Nah, pops cousins are being loud af so we’re chillin n playing xbox**

Hugo frowns at that. He remembers those visits. Asking people to quiet down just wasn’t done in the Hemingway family. Seems his son has already learned that. He lets the poorly-concealed cursing slide as a result (Yes, he knew what text slang meant, nice try though, Ernest). 

**HV: Ah, I see. You’re having a good time, then?**

 **EHV: Yeah, its cool. Hbu?**

Ah, parental white lie time. 

**HV: Oh good! A little nervous but having fun.**

**EHV: Nervous? Are they being rude?  
EHV: Are you not goth enough for them **

**HV: Haha, no no. They’re very nice. It’s just always a little nerve-wracking, meeting your partner’s family for the first time. Feels like you have to be on your best behaviour.**

**EHV: Oh  
EHV: So that never goes away huh? I thought adults were just over that stuff **

**HV: Haha, afraid not.**

**EHV: Not giving me much hope for the future here, dad lol**

Hugo smiles, his spirits buoyed as he types. 

**HV: Sorry kiddo, gotta dispense those hard truths of life. Part of being a dad.**

**EHV: Lol k  
EHV: Hell yes finally got on the server g2g bye **

**HV: Love you Ernest, have a good night, talk to you later xo**

No response, but he doesn’t expect one. He smiles and stands, preparing to leave and remembering why he’s in here in the first place. It occurs to him that if he and Damien stay together, his parents will end up meeting Ernest at some point. What would they think of him? Lucien got in normal teenage trouble as well, but he was their flesh and blood, and less…angry than Ernest. What would they see when they met him? Would they see the kind, clever boy underneath, or would they just look at him and wonder where Hugo went wrong? 

A knock at the door jolts him out of his thoughts. “Just a minute!” He quickly and needlessly washes his hands, opening the door on Damien’s concerned-looking mother. 

“Are you alright, dear? I have some stomach medicine if you need it. Oh, you’re not lactose intolerant, are you? I never asked, and there was so much cheese in that casserole-“ 

“Hah, no, quite the opposite in fact-“ Hugo stops when he realizes what a bizarre thing that is to say out of context. “I just- got a poorly-timed call from my son so I had to check in and see what he needed. He’s fine, though.” 

“Oh, okay. That’s good.” Saoirse cocks her head when he starts heading for the stairs. “You’re not going back with them? I know, it’s a bit gross in there sometimes. I was just going to watch some ‘Homicide, She Penned’ before bed. Would you like to join me?” 

Hugo refuses, because he’s a selfish idiot, and claims that he ‘forgot something in Damien’s room’ which is the worst excuse ever, because it’s revealed as one when he doesn’t come down the stairs five minutes later. Instead, he sits on the sagging mattress and silently berates himself, praying for sleep so he can play it off like he sat down and nodded off by accident and never actually rudely ran out on both parents. Because Damien would buy that, absolutely. 

_Fucked it up in just under twenty-four hours, I do believe that’s the record. You managed to make Nick’s parents like you longer than that. Now you have to make it through three more days of this and spend five hours on the train with a disappointed and angry boyfriend. Great, this is really great. Ten out of ten, Hugo, well done._

He was supposed to be smart. Why hadn’t he anticipated any of this? Why did he come here and embarrass himself? Why did that photo hit him so hard? 

_Because you’ll never make Damien as happy he did._

_He gave him a family, a life, what the hell can you give him?_

_You’re sitting up here like a bratty little kid. Just go back downstairs and quit acting like a weirdo. Just go-_

The door opens and Hugo leans forward to massage his neck, avoiding eye contact like a pro. “Hugo, what are you doing up here? We were wondering where you disappeared to!” 

“Yeah, sorry, I should have said something. I wasn’t feeling too hot, so I just- needed to get some air.” 

Damien sounds unconvinced, but not yet irritated as he sits on the edge of the bed. “You’ve been acting very strangely all day. Is something the matter?” 

“No, not at all. I’m fine.” Wow. Ninth graders fibbing about their homework sounded more convincing than he did. 

Damien frowns, the sadness in his eyes burning in Hugo’s chest. “It’s as though you’re avoiding my parents, do you not like them?” 

“No! I mean yes, I do, they’re wonderful people, but-“ Hugo looks away, rubbing at his neck again. _Goddammit, just be honest for five minutes, Vega_. “-But I don’t think they like me very much.” 

Damien looks legitimately shocked, resting a hand on his chest. “Whatever gave you that idea?” 

“Well I mean, it’s just kind of- everything, I guess.” Hugo gets up and paces a bit, feeling trapped against the headboard. “Your mom keeps looking at me like she’s- I don’t know, expecting something-“ 

“Yes, she’s expecting you to talk to her. I told her what a good conversationalist you are, but you’ve been so unusually subdued, she’s a little confused.” 

“Okay, but- your dad- I mean, to be frank, he doesn’t seem too pleased to see me.” 

“Ah, I should have warned you. He’s perpetually tired. Years of all-nighters have sort of permanently damaged his circadian rhythms. We’re all used to it, he’s honestly not as grumpy as he seems.” 

“Well, alright, that’s fair but-“Hugo scrubs a hand down and his face and stops. He decides to spit it out, because why not lay your ugliest parts bare and potentially damage the respect an amazing man has for you? Why not, right? “Your parents have had these amazing careers with all this recognition and they have this beautiful house and this great life they built for you, and what am I to them? I’m just a boring high school teacher with one failed marriage under my belt. I don’t blame them for being underwhelmed!” 

“They’re not! They’ve barely gotten to speak to you!” Hugo turns away, bracing himself for a fight. After a long silence, Damien’s voice comes softly. “But this isn’t about my parents at all, is it?” 

Hugo stays quiet, shutting his eyes when Damien steps around him. The shame sits on the back of his tongue, heavy and sickeningly sweet. He’s so embarrassed that he let it get to this point. Damien would be having a perfectly nice time with his family if he weren’t here. 

He feels warm, wide palms press against his cheeks, tilting his face up. “Hugo, look at me.” 

He opens his eyes, receiving the faintest of smiles in reward, though Damien’s expression is firmly creased with concern. “My dear, I’ve never seen you act this way. Please, tell me what ails you so that I might help correct it.” 

Hugo lets out a barely-there laugh. “It’s nothing that you can help. It’s just me being ridiculous.” 

“Then inform me of it anyway, that I might know the depth of your ridiculousness.” The twinkle has returned to Damien’s eye. At least for the moment, he’s not angry. 

“Well, for starters, – and I know how trivial this is – but I didn’t- grow up the way you did. We had a good life- have, I’m not saying otherwise, but- our house was smaller than mine is now. Do you understand?” 

“Ah,” Damien glances off, hands sliding down to Hugo’s shoulders. “On this account, I’ll ask you to forgive me. Through my eyes, my parents are just my parents, and my home is just my home. I didn’t consider the impression it might give, and I apologize. But you surely must know, neither I nor my parents vet our companions on the basis of their pocketbooks. You are not in the least unwelcome here. You realize that, don’t you?” 

“I do, I do, at least on a rational level. I’m sorry.” Hugo adjusts his glasses, shifting in place. “This isn’t the time or place to bring this up. But for clarity’s sake, I think I’m sensitive to it because Nick would- take jabs at me for picking a lower-paying career. He started making double my salary about five years in and it just- went downhill from there. Now he’s paying me child support and it hasn’t improved things, I can tell you that much.” 

“The things that man says to you continue to shock and infuriate me.” Damien cups Hugo’s jaw again, tracing a thumb over his cheek. “You’re doing your best within a fundamentally flawed system to improve the lives of your community’s next generation, and how does he make his living?” 

“Investment consulting.” 

“I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds dreadful.” 

“We were together eighteen years and I don’t know either,” Hugo chuckles, covering Damien’s hand with his own and going quiet again. “The other thing is…I know how much they must have loved Guillaume. I’m not expecting to waltz into their lives and get that kind of relationship on the first visit, absolutely not. But- I want to- measure up, somehow. To show them I can make you as happy as he did. At least- that’s what I hope I can do.” 

“Ah,” Damien’s eyes crinkle at the corners, his lips pulled taut. Hugo’s throat tightens with regret, his ears feel ablaze and he can barely look up. “That’s the root of the problem, isn’t it? You still feel as though you’re in competition with him.” 

Hugo opens his mouth to make some kind of face-saving denial, but Damien continues. “I haven’t been in your position, so I won’t assume to understand your feelings. But I can assure you that any visions you have of us sitting back and marking comparisons like bake-off judges are completely false. Guillaume loved me through some of the most difficult periods of my life, it’s true, and I love him in the present tense, as a memory. But I love you just as well, while you are here and alive, as one of the greatest gifts of my current life.” 

Damien takes a half step closer, their noses nearly touching. He runs his hands up the sides of Hugo’s neck, into his hair where he expertly releases it from its tie. “Would that I could make you see yourself as I see you. Then perhaps you would know how much I adore your brilliant mind, your generous heart, your charming sense of humour.” Their lips seal together, too loud in the close quiet. Hugo’s arms wind around Damien’s waist, the man’s eyes dancing when he pulls back. “You make me very, very happy, my dear. That’s the only thing Lucien and my parents are concerned with. You have nothing else to prove.” 

“Have I told you recently how extraordinary you are?” Hugo breathes an astonished laugh between their lips, kissing Damien again. “I love you, so much. I’m sorry for making an ass of myself. I should have just come to you from the beginning.” 

“Not to worry. I’m quite glad we got all that out in the open.” Damien reaches up, sliding Hugo’s glasses off and folding them away. “Tomorrow is a new day. Come, my love, let’s to bed.” 

Hugo awakens the next morning, a faint memory of Damien carefully wriggling out from underneath him and encouraging him back to sleep. He detangles himself from the sheets, changes into a clean white button-up (to the neck? No, a little more open- no, not that open- good, roll the sleeves up a bit too) and dark brown slacks, and freshens up in the bathroom before heading downstairs. 

“I was just about to come and get you!” Saoirse leans back from the stove, salt-and-paprika bun bouncing as she clutches a frying pan in one hand and a spatula in the other. “The boys are out on a little father-father-son outing. They said they’d be back in time for brunch, but by the looks of it, these pancakes are all ours. I hope you’re hungry!” 

Hugo accepts a stack of syrup-drenched blueberry pancakes with gratitude, taking a chair beside Saoirse’s preferred seat at the head of the table. Late morning sunlight streams in through the large, thin white curtain panels. The scale of the room feels a little less intimidating, cozy even. He wonders how many meals they’ve eaten here over the years, and how quickly Damien or his mother could calculate that. 

“Say, I meant to ask you,” She pauses to dab a drop of syrup off her blue turtleneck. “Do you have any photos of your son? I think I’ve seen him on Lucien’s Snapgram, but I like to put faces to names.” 

“Oh, sure. I’ve got a couple here.” Hugo shifts in his seat to retrieve his wallet. Ernest was in a lengthy camera-avoiding phase, so his phone was bereft of pictures. “That’s his most recent school picture- I er, tried to get him to take the hoodie off but-“ 

“Teenagers, I know. You should have seen Damien’s wardrobe at that age.” 

Hugo snickers quietly, carefully unfolding a much older photo from an inner pocket. “And that’s him when he was six months old or so. He was small for his age, but he was such a sweet baby.” 

“Aw, he’s precious!” Saoirse places a hand over her heart, flush with happiness. “Sorry, I just adore babies. Who’s that holding him?” 

“My mother, she actually just retired after forty-two years of teaching. We thought she’d never give it up.” 

“She was a teacher, too?” 

“Ha, yeah, high school English mostly. She was amazing.” Hugo self-consciously pushes some imaginary hair behind his ear. “I’m still trying to catch up to her.” 

“Oh, that’s wonderful! She must be very proud of you.” Saoirse squeezes Hugo’s hand, her tone so genuine it makes his chest clench for a short moment. The front door creaks open down the hall, a chorus of voices and clomping boots following it. “There you are! Hurry up and come eat, we need to get started on dinner!” 

Saoirse continues examining the picture while the rest of the family shuffles in, stripping off their gloves and scarves. “My goodness, you look young here. You must be like Damien, he held on to his baby face until he was thirty.” 

“I did _not_.” 

Hugo laughs affectionately, shaking his head. “That’s not me, that’s my brother. We’re seven years apart.” 

“Oh, I see it now! Is he a teacher too?” 

“No, he works at a jewelry store near my old high school. He makes engagement rings.” 

“Hm, very interesting, indeed.” Saoirse glances at Hugo over her glasses, then back to the photo. “I don’t suppose he’s single?” 

“Mother, _please_ ,” Damien pleads, pancakes in hand, his voice especially whiny. 

“I’m not dead, dear. You can’t bring handsome men into my house and expect me not to say anything.” She looks back at Hugo with a wicked grin, though he’s a bit speechless. “Will he be coming for a visit anytime soon, then?” 

“Geez, Grams, you’re breaking Opa’s heart over here,” Lucien deadpans as they take their seats, plates piled high with the excess of food and toppings. 

“Oh, I’m only teasing,” Saoirse affectionately squeezes her husband’s arm, honey in her tone. “I’d never leave him, he knows that.” 

“Not even for few days? I wouldn’t mind some peace and quiet.” Marten drawls, earning a light smack from his wife. He catches her hand and brings it up for a quick kiss, smiling at her with arched brows. She returns the smile knowingly, and Hugo looks away, half-fighting a grin. Hopefully he’ll still have game at that age, too. 

“The moose isn’t quite done,” Damien says, partly-feigned irritation forgotten. “There was a lot more stitches than I expected. Did you still want to help, Hugo?” 

“Sure, if you’d like.” Hugo tries to forget his nerves, and turns to Marten. “What’s the biggest taxidermy piece you’ve ever worked on?” 

Damien’s father hums thoughtfully, mopping some blueberry juice from his chin with one of the pumpkin-printed napkins. “Depends on if you mean individual animal or scene. Biggest individual animal is probably a polar bear, I had to rent a cube van to move that thing. But in terms of scenes, the dioramas at the museum were so large. Especially if you’re doing multiples with one species, just getting the right sets of animals can take months.” 

“Oh yeah, like the Four Seasons at the Field Museum, right?” 

Marten perks up immediately, looking more awake than he has in two days. “You know Akeley’s work?” 

“Yeah! I went to teacher’s college in Chicago and I’d go there on free admission days. The fighting elephants were my favourite.” 

He smiles, and it’s at once all too familiar. “Ah, but do you know why they’re posed that way?” 

“Because of his marriage, right? I know Delia shot the larger one…” 

The discussion of early taxidermy, arsenic and sugar snow, and early documentary photography lasts into the preparation of Thanksgiving dinner; a pumpkin pot pie and honeyed ham, for the vegetarians and carnivores respectively. Damien sidles up beside Hugo while he’s mashing a large bowl of potatoes, leaning in to whisper while Lucien and Saoirse chat loudly next to them. “You and my father information-dumping on each other is one of the dearest sights I have ever seen.” 

Hugo feels his face heat. He really hates his blush sometimes. “Well, I’m just glad we found some common ground.” 

“You won’t be able to get rid of him, now. Best of luck.” Damien leans in and presses a short, gentle kiss to his clean-shaven cheek. “I should have said so earlier, but thank you for coming. It feels so right having you here, with us.” 

Marten looms suddenly behind his son, tapping him on the back of the head with a bottle of olive oil. “No hanky-panky in the kitchen, back to work.” 

“Papa, I am nearly forty!” Damien says sharply, the sulky expression returning full force. “I do not engage in ‘hanky-panky’ with anyone.” 

“Oh?” Marten visibly suppresses a smile, jabbing his finger at his grandson. “Where’d this one come from, then? The lettuce patch?” 

“He makes a valid point, Dad.” Lucien grins, popping a few cranberries into his mouth. 

“See? The boy knows- Lucien, get your fingers out of there! Those are dessert!” 

“I washed my hands!” 

Hugo is forgotten in the family banter, and that’s fine by him. Someday, later on, when the gears have stopped spinning and when it’s not such a presumptuous and saccharine statement, he’ll tell all four of them that being here feels right to him, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Opstaan = Get up, context-equivalent to 'rise and shine' (I imagine this was said to a teenage Damien many mornings as the covers were pulled off his head)  
> Dank je = Thank you  
> Geen dank = You're welcome/no thanks needed  
> Snoes = a term of endearment, similar to 'ducky' or 'peach' in English (Damien and Hugo are separately extremely glad that their embarrassing childhood nicknames are in languages their partners don't speak)  
> If anyone wants to correct me on my secondhand Dutch, feel free! 
> 
> Two notes on names: Saoirse is pronounced Seer-sha, I know (and yes, I did steal it from Song of the Sea).  
> I realized that making Bloodmarch Damien's birth surname might give the icky impression that the names people choose for themselves are somehow less than their birth names, and nope nope nope, definitely not the case at all. It was just a funny bit I wanted to include. As always, I'm open to learning and you can let me know if I goofed. 
> 
> I decided to stick with the original game's blend of real-life and made-up places and references. Woodhaven is meant to be a stand-in for Yale, and Cavatica is based on Kenyon College (Damien's college went unnamed last time, but it's loosely based on Vassar College, which really does offer Victorian Studies and Computer Science). Also please join me in pretending you can get from Maine to Connecticut by rail. If you could, it would definitely be Damien's preferred mode of travel. 
> 
> It was super fun writing Damien's parents, in my mind he's sort of a cross-pollination between the two. He's closer with his father than he seems, he just has a case of 'Reverting to one's 13-year-old self when visiting one's parents.' And yes, yes I did write complex backstories for Saoirse and Marten that are irrelevant and interesting to no one but me. I did stop myself from including lengthy paragraphs on Carl Akeley and the World Taxidermy Championships, but you can just watch the awesome Brain Scoop Youtube videos on them if you're interested. You won't be disappointed. 
> 
> Hugo's dear to me, but I like writing his nervous side perhaps a bit too much (Sorry Hugo). The divorce has made him more gunshy than he likes to admit and he considers it his biggest failure (both the divorce itself and the way it's affected him). More on that in the next one, when we meet Hugo's family! I'm psyched to write more of these, I just love all these dads and wine mom and the kids SO MUCH 
> 
> Shoutout to the Tumblr user whose name I forgot (sorry) who posted the headcanon of Hemingway being one of Ernest's last names and not his middle name, even though that doesn't make it less dorky to name your child Ernest Hemingway Vega  
> Lastly, big shoutout to ohmymaple71 and leftid! Their mafia au is AMAZING and inspired me to give Hugo a brother (he's in the next one, no timeline because real life conspires to keep me from writing fic a lot). Check it out!  
> I got some truly wonderful comments on my first DDADDS fic, and I so appreciate them! Thank you all for reading!!


End file.
